Paper Millionaire
by MiniSouffleCafe
Summary: All Lizzie Bennet wants is to hit the ground running with her journalism career. When she takes an assistant position for Fitzwilliam Darcy, she is certain his distrustful past will provide her the story she needs to secure her future. But there is more to Darcy than meets the eye, and Lizzie must learn to dissect fact from fiction—whilst keeping her heart at arm's distance. (AU)


**A/N: I picked up ****_'Pride and Prejudice' _****for a literature project earlier this year and had such a fun time reading it that I decided to write this fic! The physical descriptions of Austen's characters in this story are closely related to that of ****_'The Lizzie Bennet Diaries' _****adaptation created by Hank Green and Bernie Su. I hope you enjoy!**

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**Chapter One: Errand Girl Wanted  
**

"Lizzie," Lydia drawled, tapping her pen on the edge of the computer screen. Her annoyed glare punctured Elizabeth's peripheral vision. It didn't stop her fingers from flying across the keyboard at an alarming rate. Lydia sighed through her nose. "Lizzie!"

"What?"

"I said _go home _already. It's past one, and you're giving off a negative vibe."

"I'm sorry—a what?_"_

"You heard me. A _negative vibe._ People are just getting off of work right now, and the last thing they need to see when they walk in is a brooding workaholic."

"I told you already: Starbucks is closed, and I can't work at home—the place is a mess and mom will just breathe down my neck until I do something about it." Elizabeth paused to shoot her younger sister a look. "And I am not brooding."

"You look like you're trying to bore a hole through your keyboard," Lydia said, polishing a glass and setting it aside. "Just because you hate your nonexistent job doesn't mean you can come and sabotage mine."

"I think the man on the other end of the bar needs a refill," she stage-whispered.

The satisfaction of Lydia's eye roll was short-lived as the writer turned back towards her computer screen. She needed to finish this article by tonight, or else she might never forgive herself. Never mind the puffiness beneath her eyes, or the technical unemployment. This was a personal goal. If she didn't reach one-thousand words by the time she left this bar stool, Elizabeth Bennet would spend the following week wallowing in self-doubt.

The Meryton Pub was the closest place she could find that was open at this hour; her sister Lydia just happened to work there. Two years her junior and the loudest person in the household aside from their mother, Lydia Bennet was far from giving her older sister a warm welcome when she arrived, especially when all she ordered were glasses of lemon water and tortilla chips. As far as Lydia was concerned, she was in no position to receive any gratuity with Elizabeth there, claiming half the bar with her papers, pens, and stress-inducing aura of about a three-seat radius. It was infuriating.

"What are you working on, anyway?" Lydia asked upon returning. "Is it that article on the Smart Foods robbery?"

"No," Elizabeth sighed, pushing her laptop away and pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. "Catherine de Bourgh didn't like that one. Said I was 'justifying a crime' instead of stating the facts."

Lydia scoffed. "I wouldn't blame them, either. I mean, $4.99 for guacamole? That's just cruel."

Elizabeth couldn't shake the embarrassment from when she'd walked into Catherine's office earlier that week, a mint in her cheek to combat the coffee breath and a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins. She'd worked all night on that article, relating the event to how socioeconomic status affected obesity and crime rates in America. If there was one thing the writer was confident in, it was her ability to take a misconduct as trivial as a supermarket shoplifting and turn it into something impactful, something thought-provoking. Needless to say, that confidence came crashing down upon Catherine's every criticism. Her paper was bathed in red ink by the time she left, and when she showed up the following morning with edits, Catherine had the nerve to express her indifference and assign her something else.

"Why do you still write for that cow?" her sister asked in disgust, much to Elizabeth's surprise. "It's not like she's paying you to put up with her."

"Because I didn't spend my whole summer interning at The Chicago Echo just to give up, Lydia," she said, kneading her forehead. "If I can just find a good story, something that I can develop and branch-off of, then I can prove to Catherine that I deserve to be on her staff as a full-time journalist."

"You should show her your bank account statement. Maybe that'll convince her."

The door opened not a second later, a weary Jane Bennet crossing the threshold. She wore her fleece jacket, a blue scrub top with matching bottoms, and the most fatigued expression her younger sisters had ever seen. Wisps of auburn hair fell from her braided up-do; she tucked them back haphazardly and smiled in the direction of the bar.

"God, _you're_ here too?" Lydia exclaimed. "Will Mary and Kitty be joining us as well?"

Jane pouted in disapproval as she slung her bag into the seat beside Elizabeth. "You know Mary doesn't like these kinds of places, and Kitty's underage. I don't even know why you'd ask such a thing."

Lydia waved off her eldest sister's reprimands with a hand. "Just order something, will you? I already know I'm not getting any tips from you two."

"Don't need to ask me twice," she replied, folding her hands on the wooden countertop. "I'll have an orange soda and a veggie burger, please. No onions or mushrooms."

While Lydia prepared her soft drink, Jane studied the array of papers strewn before her, Elizabeth's hurried handwriting stretched across each one. "I love the way you write," she said, selecting a page and turning it over gingerly. "It's like I can see you rushing to get the words out. It's amazing."

"Thank you, though I wish I could say the same for my first draft." Brainstorming was never difficult for Elizabeth; her several pages of notes were testament to that. It was actually writing that posed the tougher challenge. Newspapers, especially The Chicago Echo, had no room for fragments or plays on words. Having Catherine de Bourgh as chief editor was no less helpful. "She wants me to write about Chicago's bipolar climate, and I'm so at a loss for words that I've resorted to Katy Perry lyrics for inspiration."

"I think _'Hot N' Cold' _was everyone's guilty pleasure at one point in time," Jane agreed with a light laugh. "Take a break, Lizzie. You're tiring yourself out, working here late. And I doubt Lydia's been the most accommodating hostess."

"I heard that!"

"On the contrary. You see, I said I wouldn't leave until I had at least a thousand words written, and because of Lydia's incessant pandering, I'm just shy of nine hundred. If anything, she's _encouraging_ me to finish so I can leave."

"Trust me, helping you was not my intention," her younger sister retaliated, a glass of orange soda and straw at hand. "Jane, I added a side of fries to your burger. You look like you need it."

"Oh wow, thanks," said Elizabeth.

"Hey, you could've ordered anything that wasn't free in the two hours you've sat there, taking up space. And besides, Jane's the only one of us with an actual, stable job. We need to feed and water her at all costs."

It was true. Out of the five Bennet sisters, Jane was the only one with an established career. She was a registered nurse at the Ann & Robert H. Lurie Children's Hospital, a job Elizabeth found extremely fitting for her sister's gentle, nurturing personality. Lydia, on the other hand, thought it was just plain depressing.

_"__You work twelve-hour shifts surrounded by infection and feces," _she said by the end of Jane's first week, refusing to hug her until she'd showered. _"No wonder you look like hell."_

_"__It's not about me, you know," _Jane replied defensively, swatting her sister's knee. _"The hospital can be a scary place for kids. If I can make it any less crazy than it already is—if I can be there for them when they need it, then I've done my job."_

Lydia merely scrunched her nose. _"And they say we're related." _

"How was your shift?" Elizabeth pinched the sleeve of Jane's jacket, a gesture she'd done since she was little.

Her lips curved into a smile around her straw. It didn't hide the exhaustion settled deep within her green eyes.

"Tiring. A little girl went in for an emergency surgery today, only six years-old. She was kicking and screaming for her mother the entire time, but the anesthesiologist wouldn't allow any family in for the procedure. I had to tell the mother that, Lizzy. It was horrible."

"I'm sorry." Elizabeth rubbed her shoulder, expression laced with concern. "I'm sure you did everything you could to comfort her."

Jane only nodded, pinching the straw between her fingertips and stabbing it into the ice at the bottom of her glass. "It's just, who am I to deny a parent the right to see their child? If it were me, I'd have convinced someone, _anyone_, to let me into that operating room. It's just hard sometimes."

Practicing empathy came so naturally to her oldest sister; she would always make it a priority to form a connection between her patients and their families. It's what made her such a reputable nurse. But in times like these, Elizabeth could see Jane's big, spacious heart take in all that grief, all that pain, as if it were her own. It wasn't healthy in the long run, and she advised Jane to distance herself whenever necessary.

"It couldn't have been entirely bad," Elizabeth said. "Tell me something good that happened today."

Jane let out a long sigh and closed her eyes, as if trying to locate a happy memory amidst all the sad ones that fogged her brain. "Uh…I arrived at the hospital early this morning, so I got an Ergotron all to myself. It's nice to have my own computer, makes everything easier to chart. Someone baked apple fritters for the lounge, so I snacked on those—oh! I remember now. A new medical resident started today, so I got to show him around for a bit. He was really nice."

"Oh? Do intrigue me."

Her sister laughed, the kind of laugh she used to undermine a personal achievement, or brush aside a compliment. It was a silent plea for Elizabeth not to make a big deal out of whatever she was about to say. "His name is Charles. Charles Bingley."

"Like the search engine?"

"Like the search engine. He was so nervous Lizzie, it was the sweetest thing. You could tell he really wanted to make a good first impression."

"Well obviously—you're Jane Bennet. What guy _wouldn't_ want to make a good first impression on you?"

"It wasn't like that." Jane shook her head, but her grin became impossible to hide. "He just had the kindest smile, is all. Nothing to get worked up about—this isn't an episode of _'Grey's.'_"

"God, I wish you had less of a head on your shoulders," Elizabeth drawled, rolling her eyes. Leave it to Jane to follow every rule in the book. "Did you at least get around to talking? A pretty smile means hardly anything if he can't uphold a good conversation."

"Oh, Lizzie. You've always had the most selective taste in boys," Jane said with a lighthearted sigh. "And we did, actually. I talked about my sisters, he talked about his. He _even _mentioned something I think you'd be interested in."

"Is it a story idea I can use to win over Catherine de Bourgh? Because if so, I'm all for it."

Her sister gave her an encouraging smile. Her nurse'_s _smile. "I know how hard you've been working towards your big break, and I have no doubt in my mind that you'll win that woman over with your fantastic writing skills. But I'm afraid it's not that."

"What is it, then?"

"…a job opportunity," Jane said, turning in her bar stool so to fully meet her sister's eye. "Charles told me that one of his good friends is looking for a personal assistant, and that if I knew anyone who was interested, to let him know."

Elizabeth blinked back at her sister's words, as if she didn't quite hear them correctly. "A personal assistant? Like, making coffee and answering phone calls?"

"Don't think of it that way, Lizzie…"

"But that's exactly what a personal assistant does. It's basically a fancier term for _'errand girl.' _What makes you think I'd be interested in that?"

"Well, given that you just graduated college earlier this year, I think it'd be a good starting point for you."

"I have a good starting point already, and that's The Chicago Echo."

"Yes, but are you _employed_ by them, Lizzie? Does Catherine de Bourgh pay you for all the hard work you've been putting in?"

Elizabeth sat back in her seat, trying to locate her words. "Well no, but I don't have time to focus on anything else. If Catherine recognizes all the effort I've been putting in, the sooner she can hire me as a full-time journalist. The sooner she can get my stories out there and into the world. I'm so close, Jane. I know I am. I just need a little more time."

Hence why she was still here at one o'clock in the morning, freeloading on tortilla chips and writing furiously until the word count at the bottom of her screen hit one-thousand. She'd decided long ago that she wasn't meant for a traditional nine-to-five, and envisioned her career satisfying the hunger that was her unending curiosity. She wanted to ask the tough questions, research topics she knew nothing about, and advocate causes she truly believed in. It wounded her, in a way, that Jane didn't see her doing that in the near future.

Her older sister picked up on this immediately, for she wrung her hands in her lap and tried to explain.

"I get that this has been your dream job for forever. I really do. But you have to understand, Lizzie. I can't be the only steady source of income after dad retires, it just isn't possible. With Mary and Lydia still in college and Kitty about to start her last year of high school…" With a slight groan, Jane closed her eyes again, as if wanting nothing more but to shut out all the numbers and equations currently running through her system. "I just want to know for sure that the girls are taken care of, and that mom and dad can rely on us if they need to. Do you see where I'm coming from?"

She did. In fact, Elizabeth could see where she was coming from so clearly that it became impossible to ignore the seed of guilt now planted inside of her stomach. Jane was still a ways away from paying off her student debt, yet she still prioritized her family's needs above all else. It made Elizabeth feel horribly self-centered in comparison. How could she reach towards her aspirations without leaving behind the people who had sparked them in the first place?

Whenever Jane and Elizabeth wanted to attend a sleepover or birthday party, their mother would have them write one paragraph each stating why she should allow them to go. Elizabeth, ever the debater, always posed the fiercer argument. When Elizabeth's books were packed into boxes during their move to Clarendon Hills, her father created bedtime stories on-the-spot, allowing his daughter's creativity to chime in whenever possible. Structuring sentences, telling _stories_, had always been an integral part of her childhood. It was only necessary to provide for her parents now, when they'd already given her the greatest gift of all. Why couldn't she use that gift, that _passion _for writing, to do exactly that? Why did she have to resort to personal assisting?

_You know why, _she told herself. _Because you chose to major in journalism. Because you didn't want to become a doctor, or a lawyer, or anything that would earn you more than what you'd make writing for The Chicago Echo._

It was unsettling to think that a job she considered to be her whole world was viewed so cheaply in the eyes of everyone else.

Jane reached into her handbag and retrieved an ivory business card. "His name is Fitzwilliam Darcy. He owns The Pemberley? We pass by it whenever we go to the Art Institute."

Elizabeth sniffled, taking the card into her own hands and watching the bar's warm light gloss over the embossed lettering. "You mean that really posh hotel in Downtown Chicago? Jane, I don't think I can afford to look like I belong in that sort of place."

"I know pencil skirts and high heels aren't really your thing, but that's an easy fix! We can even go on a shopping spree to spruce up your wardrobe—it'll be fun, I promise."

Frowning, she replied, "I thought you wanted me to _earn _money."

"I think it'll do you some good," Lydia input from the other side of the bar. She served Jane's veggie burger with a side of fries, folded her arms across her chest, and wrinkled her nose at Elizabeth's disheveled appearance. "I mean, look at you. I'm pretty sure you've had that sweatshirt since the twelfth grade."

Elizabeth looked down at herself, suddenly conscious of the fleece sweatshirt that hung loosely over her petite figure. It was grey and had _'Yosemite National Park' _screened onto the front, the image of a meditating brown bear faded from the constant wash-and-wear. The waves of palpable embarrassment seething from Lydia strengthened by tenfold. Jane, meanwhile, placed a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder.

"Just sleep on it, okay? You don't have to take it if you really don't want to, but at least make the phone call and schedule an interview. You never know, you might like it."

Elizabeth couldn't see how anyone could enjoy being at someone's constant beck-and-call, especially if that someone was one of the most affluent businessmen in the whole of Chicago. But she could never argue with Jane for too long—her oldest sister and closest friend was too good, too _deserving_ to be told a straightforward no. Elizabeth hadn't the heart to form a witty retort to either of her two sisters, so she instead stole a French fry off of Jane's plate, chewed in silence, and tried not to feel guilty as she pushed Fitzwilliam Darcy's business card beneath her stack of papers.


End file.
